


Bonding With Your Soulmate in 3 Easy Steps

by Ingi



Series: Author's Favorites [8]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF), The Hobbit - All Media Types, Thor - All Media Types, Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Ambiguous Relationships, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Everything Hurts, M/M, Minor Canonical Character(s), Misunderstandings, Multi, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, POV Multiple, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Secrets, Some Humor, Soulmates, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-08 23:09:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12875013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ingi/pseuds/Ingi
Summary: Step 1: Initiate friendly contact. Your soulmate is probably dying to meet you, after having waited for you for so long! Don't be afraid to introduce yourself if you don't already know each other, and start talking about common interests.Step 2: Establish trust. By now, your relationship should have a solid base to lean into, so you can focus on learning what you want from each other and planning your life together.Step 3: Enjoy your perfect relationship. Congratulations, you have smoothed every bump on your way to happiness! All that is left is taking advantage of the benefits that a soulmate brings into your life, so remember to sign up to the Ministry's program, The Soulmate Force, if you really want to start your new life with your soulmate the right way!If only it were that simple.





	1. STEP 1: INITIATE FRIENDLY CONTACT

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nrandom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nrandom/gifts).



> Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, Nrandom! <3
> 
> It was an honor to write for you. I hope you like this mess of a fic; I tried to cram in as many of your likes as possible, so with any luck, it will make it extra awesome instead of a total disaster!
> 
>    
>  ~~Keep in mind the Unreliable Narrator tag! I dragged pretty much everyone (especially Victor and Thorin lmao) and it hurt my soul, but hey, at least we'll both know the truth.~~

"I can't believe it! This is pure propaganda!"

Hermione throws the Daily Prophet back to the common room table, lips pressed in a thin line of discomfort and anger, and turns back to face Harry, as if insting him to agree with her. Ron is faster, but not very tactful.

"'Mione, soulmates have the strongest magical affinity, you know that, and with the War reparations-"

"It's not the War reparations I have something against!" Hermione yells back. "It's the manipulating, and the unfairness, and the goddamned hypocrisy-"

"Hermione," Harry says, startled.

Having learned from previous experience, he tries very hard not to automatically lean back when Hermione turns towards him again, tears shinning in her eyes. She doesn't look like she's going to scream any more, but her grip on her own knees has her knuckles white.

"They spent centuries selling the idea of soulmates they wanted," she says quietly, "telling everyone who didn't fit into it that there was something wrong with them. Treating them like it was true. And now they need strong magic and the public's support, so they act like nothing ever happened. Find your soulmate before next year, and we will give you a job and all kinds of benefits and prestige. It doesn't matter if you have more than one soulmate or if they're platonic, or if your signs to find each other are all wrong, because we can make use of you now." Her lips curl in bitterness. "It's not okay, and no one is going to do anything about it."

Ron and Harry exchange a gaze, somber.

"Uh- at least things will get better, now," Harry suggests, placing a hand over hers.

"Yeah, it doesn't really matter how, as long as they do, right?" Ron adds, doing the same, so each of Hermione's hands is covered by one of theirs. "'sides, a lot of wizards will walk out of Hogwarts with their future solved. That has to be worth something."

"They will, won't they?" Hermione sighs. "They're all swallowing it right up. It's all the Eight and Seventh years are talking about, and it's starting to spread down the younger years as well."

Harry makes some quick calculations in his head, faster than the ones he used to make in professor Debbie's math class on the mornings after Dudley had thrown his homework into the trash, or the toilet, or- well, related, disgusting places; being Dudley, he never went past mildly inventive.

Hermione is still angry, and bitter, and exhausted from three nights in a row of very little sleep. She never wakes them up with screams when she has a nightmare, unlike Harry himself, but she lays unnaturally still in the bed they all share now —in the Gryffindor's boy dorm, two beds pushed together and still way too small— for hours until something, possibly soulmate magic and possibly the instinct that comes from having known someone for years, makes their own eyes blink open. Three nights in a row of _Want to talk about it_ and the serene, inevitable _No_.

Ron's gaze has fallen to the palm of his right hand, where Hermione's and Harry's soulmate marks sit, so unobtrusive that it took them years and years before realizing what they meant —Harry's especially so, since Hermione's and Ron's marks are the most distinctive, this being the only area of Harry's life in which he's as plain and normal as it gets—. According to the world at large, they don't mean anything. They're not each other's names in perfect handwriting, they're not symbols with a deeper meaning, they're just shared birthmarks that link them together, completely unremarkable except for the fact that no one else will ever have them.

Yet another thing in them that's broken.

The night after Voldemort's death, they hadn't spoken about the War, but Ron had stared blankly at the ceiling before saying, too overwhelmed to be ashamed, _Y'know, one of the things I've always liked the most about eating, apart from, uh, eating, is that when I'm doing it- uh, you can't really see my soulmate marks_. The very same look he was wearing then is starting to creep into his eyes right now.

Harry gently releases Hermione's hand and stands up. He can feel them watching, waiting, so he takes the Exploding Snap deck from where he knows Dean has been hiding it from Seamus —whose extreme competitivity while playing it has apparently become a problem for his soulmate—, behind one of the tapestries, in a semi-secret compartment where it's rumoured Godric Gryffindor used to keep his gold beard brush. Hermione looks less than impressed when he throws the deck into her lap.

"You could've just Accioed it here," Ron says, smiling thinly. "Y'know that, right, mate?"

Harry grins and throws himself between them. There's a lot of startled laughter from Ron and half-hearted complains from Hermione, and even after they've shifted to be more comfortable, someone's elbow is digging into his ribs.

And he can only think, reassured and more than a little smug, _Worth it_.

 

 

 

"Good morning, friends!"

Thor walks past the couch and they all lift their heads and smile —Ron immediately turning back to their game of Exploding Snap—, but he's not paying attention anymore, his eyes stuck to the newspaper laying on the table. He's sweaty from playing Quidditch all morning, and Tony and Charles have invited him to a late second breakfast in the kitchens to ease the sting from his team's loss —those two are imparable when they join forces, and Erik constantly watching Charles instead of the Bludgers didn't help—, but even before he reads the article on the front page he already knows what he's going to do.

"-so please tell him to stop bothering Neville."

All of the sudden, he notices Hermione is staring at him, an eyebrow raised, clearly waiting for an answer to something Thor wasn't listening to.

"I apologise, I didn't realise you were speaking to me," he says, beaming at her in what he hopes is a sufficiently repentant fashion.

Her lips twitch, and she gestures to her right, where Harry and Ron are absorbed in the increasingly violent match. Well, maybe not particularly so by Thor's standards, but definitely compared to the usual level seen in the dorms.

"Who else would I be talking to?"

Thor shrugs, shifting on his feet. If he knows Loki at all, and after growing up together for the last seventeen years —or, _almost_ seventeen, which apparently makes quite a difference to Loki—, he sure hopes so, his brother is already devising the best way to avoid him for the next few weeks, possibly more. He really does not have time for this.

"Hermione, I have a vital matter to attend to-"

"Yes, I imagine," she replies, impatiently, and tilts her head in the direction of the newspaper. Thor can tell she doesn't like the headlines either, but he doubts it's for the same reasons. "I only wanted to ask you to tell Oakenshield to stop bothering Neville. It really does bug him when-"

"'Mione, Harry's cheating!"

"What?! No, I'm not! I think we got the decks mixed up, this one-"

Hermione ignores the scruffle that results to her right, a fond smile on her face. She stands up and steps closer to Thor, and the important part, further away from the ruckus made by the cards, five of which suddenly explode at once for no apparent reason.

"Like I said, it's _outrageous_ that he was always so mean to Neville, but now after the Battle he thinks he can give a poor excuse for an apology and start pretending they're friends, when-"

"Neville can take care of himself," Thor reminds her, trying to subtly sneak a gaze or two towards the door. "He's a warrior now. It's what led Thorin to apologise. We both hold great respect for-"

"And yet you were never rude to Neville," Hermione says, scowling. "All I'm saying is that he shouldn't have to deal with that now."

"Yes, and you're very right." Thor renounces to every notion of subtlety, which he was never particularly good at either way, and starts walking towards the door. "I will tell Thorin that his attempts at friendship aren't appreciated," he yells over his shoulder. Too loud, because Harry and Ron, who are right in the middle of a typical Exploding Snap match chaos, hear him over all the noise. "I promise you, he will let it go. He's a rather honourable fellow."

Right before he leaves the room, Hermione waves at him and smiles, sad and encouraging all at once.

"Good luck."

She is like Loki that way, saying one thing and meaning a thousand. The difference is, she never uses it to hurt.

Thor goes looking for his brother and he knows what he's going to find, if he finds anything at all. He tries the library first, because sometimes, when he's in the mood, Loki delights himself with the idea of having Thor search for the most hidden, innaccesible places only for him to be in the most obvious ones. And indeed, there is a glimpse of robes that are a little too light for Slytherin green, Loki's spiteful rebellion against the appropriation of his favourite color by a quarter of the school.

Loki, sitting on a corner in the exact place to be hidden behind a shelf and from the windows, has his head buried in a book that very clearly belongs to the Forbidden Section, the covers old but shimmering strangely, a face with the lips sewn together drawn on it. He doesn't look up, even though he clearly hears Thor arrive.

"Loki!" Thor calls, and stands right beside him, but still Loki does not look up. "Brother, did you see the-"

"You reek," is all Loki says. A pause, and then, "Don't call me that."

"Not this again," Thor despairs. He can tell —this time, at least— when he's being distracted from his intentions, but that doesn't make the venom used any less real. "Please, Loki, I've told you a thousand times this summer, you will always be-"

"And _why_ would I want to be known as a relative of yours, when you cannot even remember that it is only polite to shower if you're planning to inflict your presence on someone?" Loki interrupts him viciously. The anger in his eyes, finally meeting Thor's, is so great that it nearly makes him instinctively reel back. "It is lucky that I am not of your blood after all, I've been living in shame for being associated with you for far too many years."

Thor would like to say that it doesn't matter, Loki not being born of Odin and Frigga, because it _doesn't_ , but he's made that mistake more than once and more than five times already. It sure matters to Loki, at least in the ways he twists the meaning of Thor's words into, and before leaving back for Hogwarts, Thor promised both himself and their mother to be more patient, more careful, to try and help heal the hurt that they all unwittingly caused. Loki promised nothing, remaining in sullen silence while Thor proclaimed his intentions, but he has not ran away to Beauxbatons or burned the entire castle down while they slept, and that is everything.

"Please, brother, let us not fight on this now," Thor says, modullating his voice as low as it will go without whispering; Loki tends to listen more when he does that, if only out of surprise. He places a hand on his brother's shoulder, who scowls at him. "I saw the news, and I worried. I know how you get when you're upset."

A whiff of wind —wind that cannot be anything but magical— carries a pile of ashes from who knows where to Thor's direction. So that's where the newspaper Huginn usually brings them went.

"It's none of my concern, how they choose to muddle the soulmate laws this time," Loki haughtingly says. He closes the book with enough leftover violence that a cloud of dust rises.

"But you-" Thor tries. "Loki, you get- sensitive, about soulmates."

He knows it's the wrong thing to say even as he's in the middle of it. Colour rises in Loki's pale face, and he grabs the book and stands, an inch away from Thor and yet so far. There might be tears, it's hard to tell, but some guilt is alleviated by the certainty those have been there for hours.

" _Sensitive_?" Loki hisses. "What would you know? What do you know of anything?"

"Brother-"

"I'm the one who has been marked forever as some kind of joke- the one who can't ever-" he breathes in, sharply. "And you, with your perfectly clear skin and your perfectly working eyes, _you_ dare to tell me-"

"Is it my fault now that I have no soulmate?" Thor asks, incredulous.

"Oh, don't try to make this into your sob story," Loki laughs. "People might as well think whatever they please about your lack of obvious soulmate marks, and that's exactly what they do. It is worse to have the wrong mark that to have none at all-"

"And _what_ is the problem with yours?"

Thor didn't mean to make it sound like that, although he does entirely mean the question. He doesn't think he's ever seen Loki's mark, even though if he concentrates, he can remember a flash of blue from a few times where he almost accidentally did. And he knows that it's a symbolic mark, one whose meaning only Loki can understand, and perhaps it's not as good as having someone's name tattoed, but very few people would shame Loki for it, so Thor suspects that his brother hates the concept of soulmates more than he hates the mark itself.

A small yowl, between pain and fury, comes from Loki, and that's when Thor realises that he has lost.

 

 

 

"I will not murder him."

Loki has been whispering that to himself for the last few minutes, glad for the empty corridors —not that it would give him a worse reputation, not that he'd _care_ —. But he cannot, for the life of him, entirely convince himself.

He doesn't bother with the door and the password, merely goes through the wall of the Slytherin common room like it's made of water. He didn't think he could be in an even worse mood, but most of the students not startling at his trick does it. Whatever the feeling curling in his gut is, something he doesn't want to examine too closely, it's chanting for blood, but Loki only glides across the room and pushes a First year out of her chair to sit.

In front of him, a flash of red robes catches his attention. Howell, sitting in a nearby chair and entirely focused in one of his most favoured muggle devices, was going to be the outlet to his rage, lest he becomes so beside himself that he loses control, but there's a Gryffindor in his common room and Loki has had quite enough of Gryffindors and their earnest, insufferable insistance on poking at what should be well left alone. Not that Fíli Durin is the best example of that, so it's yet another proof that even when it's not about Thor, it _is_ about Thor.

" _Out_ ," he spits at Durin One, but directing it at Durin Two as well. After all, it's his fault Loki has to deal with this on the first place. He too has a Gryffindor brother, or rather, pseudo-relative, but he doesn't insist on carrying him around everywhere like a lapdog. "Go play your _touching_ co-dependent act somewhere out of my sight."

"Really, you're one to talk," Durin Two laughs, remarkably stupid for a Slytherin. Durin One, who in exchange happens to be reasonably level-headed for a Gryffindor, elbows him in the ribs. "What?" Durin Two says indignantly, turning towards his brother. "Everyone knows-"

"Kíli, we've got to find Uncle anyway," Durin One quickly talks over him. "With the whole soulmate deal all over the news-"

"Yes, yes, _fine_. I don't get why it's such a big issue. If Uncle would just-"

"Out!" Loki screams, finally throughly losing whatever cool he had left.

A thick layer of frost starts spreading from wherever he's touching and outwards, but it has to nearly reach the dorms —most of the Slytherins retreating as far as they can go, with expressions that Loki would normally find satisfying— before Durin One and Two actually show any intention to leave, rolling their eyes.

"We can meet in the passage under the third floor closet later," Durin One still tells Howell, as they linger in the doorstep, "if you've got time after dinner. I am sure we've got more stories-"

"Oh, I've just remembered this hilarious one," Durin Two says, grinning. "Y'know, Fee, the one with the feral giant back in Hithaeglir, and the warg-"

"That was _not_ funny, Kíli, please never even think about _riding a bloody warg_ ever again-"

Howell closes the top of his muggle device and snorts.

"Are you even- are you even kidding me right now? _Wargs_. Sounds like the name you would give a made-up monster if you were trying to scare a little kid. Be good, Timmy, or the _wargs_ will come and-"

A stalactite falls from the ceiling like a dagger and pierces through the ground on its way down, merely inches away from Howell's left foot. There's an remarkable moment of silence where the leftover students take the scene in and quietly file out of the room. The Durins take longer, either to prove they aren't intimidated or because they're just that reckless, and they probably will never know how close they really came to death.

Loki hates them with an intensity that he usually reserves for Odin —or occasionally for Thor, if the mood strikes—. They are the freaks, not him, with their rumoured colour-blindless soulmate marks and their current ability to see perfectly despite of it, they are the ones followed by whispers about platonic soulmates, about their brokenness, because no one who needs to find their soulmate to recognise colour can be considered fully a person. They are the freaks who might or might not be in a gang of Dark wizards, who call someone two years older Uncle and seem to have at least to hundred cousins, the ones descending from a line of royalty from who knows where that has been dead for the last hundred years and keeps embarrassing itself by attempting to recover its ancient power.

They are the freaks, but _Loki_ is the one who has to suffer.

"You might want to calm the fuck down," Howell says, conversationally. But he's holding onto his device and his eyes are wide and wary, and _annoyed_ , like Loki is an inconvenience. "Just saying."

Loki curls his hands into fists behind his back and slowly crosses his legs, going for a relaxed pose. He hates losing control, especially where others can see. Especially with ice.

"My apologies," he replies, coldly, to somehow replace the retreating frost. "I was accosted by Thor in the library. He does not know how to stay out of what doesn't concern him, and he thought it necessary to go pester me about soulmates again."

"Ah, yes, your brother who worries and cares about you very much," Howell huffs. "Imagine that. It must have been _horrible_ , and so unexpected. I'm so glad I was sitting down for this."

Howell's particular brand of sarcasm is one Loki can appreciate from time to time, as shown by how he's one of the very few people he actually bothers to talk to. This is not the moment for it.

Loki thinks of the mark on his arm, branding him forever into a destiny he does not want. He thinks of this past summer, finding a spell he was never meant to know about and watching as the man who he used to think of as his father turned pale and threaded excuse after excuse, knitting a web of lies and confusing explanations that led nowhere not unlike the ones Loki tends to make himself, Frigga's guilt and Thor's confusion and his own rage, and his fear as well, much as he'd never admit it even to himself. He thinks of the mumbles of _Dark wizard_ that had no basis on reality until they had.

The room is completely clean of frost now. It is only in Loki's blood.

"Forget about it," he snaps at Howell, as he rigidly stands up and slides into the dorms. "Go back to your inane, low-life muggle pastimes."

Somewhere, in some obscure book, there must be a spell of some kind to alter a soulmate mark. And Loki is going to find it if it kills him.

 

 

 

"Fuck, that guy is completely bonkers."

Mumbling to yourself is not precisely a sign of a stable mental landscape, so Dan decides to text Phil instead.

 _guess who just had an epic tantrum_.

He's meeting him in less than two hours anyway, but Phil's the only wizard of all the ones Dan's even vaguely friendly with who has a phone, and Dan'll be damned if he's going to not take advantage of that. Magic is amazing, but he misses civilisation. The wifi signal he gets in Hogwarts is surprisingly terrible; Phil always blames it on the magical interferences, but Dan doesn't believe that's a thing.

 _The Russian Drama Queen?_ Phil textes back, almost immediately. And then, _The other, tinier, Russian Drama Queen?_

Dan snorts, rubbing the bracelet on his wrist with his thumb.

 _fake veela is too busy brushing his hair and i helped tiny russian dq to find a leopard-printed robe on ebay this morning_ , he replies, _so no_. He will never understand Yuri's obsession with anything cat-related —or rather, leopard-printed—, but he can admire the guy's determination to learn about the Internet and other muggle inventions, despite being a snotty half-blood hell-bent on pretending he's a pureblood. Plus, Dan will _never_ regret introducing him to cat memes.

 _This game would be easier if literally all of your housemates weren't so dramatic_ , Phil says, then. _Was it that Eight year who always looks like his mum forgot to pack his lunch?_

Back when Dan was a tiny First year muggleborn shifting from foot to foot as he waited for the Slytherin prefects to take him to his new dorm, the choice to befriend the Second year Hufflepuff with an unnaturally bright smile presented itself. But he would've done it much sooner if he had thought that he would one day receive, thanks to the wonderful human that Phil is, the greatest description he has ever heard for Draco Malfoy. And the best, or perhaps worst part is that Phil probably didn't even mean to be funny. It is a real possiblity that he has genuinely forgotten Malfoy's name, despite the whispers and the news and Harry Potter mentioning him at least once per conversation.

 _met ron in the kitchen, said malfoy is in one of his sulking phases on the crushing on harry potter wild ride_. And before Phil has time to get suspicious and probe him about the meet-up with Ron —at four in the morning, and a nearly weekly event that Phil is unnecessarily concerned about—, he adds, _come over already, we have a video to script_.

It's earlier than they had accorded, but Phil's only comment is _Can we get lunch meanwhile?_

They get lunch.

"Okay, but what I don't understand is," Phil says, mouth full with stir-fry, "why would Howl hole himself away in a dusty castle instead of- you know, changing things?"

Their laptops are abandoned back on their respective dorms, and the notebook Phil brought in an attempt to increase their productivity —and go back to more old-fashioned scripting methods, which Dan had emphatetically ranted against— lays untouched between their plates on the Slytherin table. And now Phil is insulting Howl's Moving Castle and by that, insulting Dan as well.

"Because Howl is a coward! That's the whole point!" Dan replies. He has a lot of feelings about Howl Pendragon. "I can't believe we're friends. I _can't_ be friends with someone who doesn't understand Howl's motivations. So you know what, your priviledges as best friend are immediately revoked, try reapplying again next year-"

Phil dramatically narrows his eyes at Dan, who narrows his own right back. This stalemate holds for about half a minute, when Phil starts making increasingly terrible grimaces in hope of startling Dan into laughter and finally gives in, complaining about his lunch getting cold, after Dan keeps staring at him with a deadpan expression.

"So who threw a tantrum this time?" Phil comments casually, a sure-way to put an end to the full-blown argument that would definitely result and last for hours or even days otherwise.

"Loki," Dan answers, and Phil groans, annoyed at himself for not realising. "Apparently, Thor was trying to get him to share his feelings again. And of course Loki just found it _outrageous_ that his brother would be worried about soulmates-related angst from a guy well-known for- uh, what do you know, _soulmates-related angst_."

Phil just shakes his head, at first, his typical response to finding out about the latest act in the tragicomedy that is the Odinson's life —a bimonthly ocurrence—, and Dan is about to change the topic to the next Quidditch match and how he's looking forward to make Harper feel inadequate, but then it hits them. They don't talk about soulmates. It was a promise made in tears and blood in only their third year of friendship, precisely so that they could keep being friends, or at least that's what Dan is certain was implied.

He wishes he had limited himself to texting, if only so Phil couldn't see his face right now.

"Uh-" Phil tries, and then lets it go with an awkward smile that looks painted on. Dan wants to scream, but he merely gazes down to the table, slowly but aggresively scratching lines into the wood with a nail. "So- uh, the script. I was thinking about including a new sound effect after-"

Dan doesn't realise he has stood up until he hears the bench being violently forced to go backwards a few inches, despite the weight of several other students trying to keep it in place. But he's standing now, and half of the table is staring at him —too early for it to be more than half-full, but too early for this to go unnoticed under all the racket—, and even worse, _Phil_ is staring at him, with an absolutely heartbreaking expression.

Dan should explain himself, or try to. He's aware of that.

But he opens his mouth and the words won't come, and the scream is still lodged in his throat, so he just turns around and goes back to his common room, where Phil cannot follow him even if he wanted to.

He's not going to want to.

 

 

 

"Dan! _Dan_!"

This is not how you are supposed to deal with Dan when he's like this. Phil knows, but it doesn't prevent him from trying.

He should have imagined this would happen the moment he saw the news, not just because of the general mention of soulmates —they have gotten really good at ignoring those through the years—, but because this is _huge_ , and they have been too lucky while standing on the edge of a knife, and Phil's soulmate has been beating against his ribs for what it seems like forever. And every time he traces Dan's name with a finger and whispers to himself _He is not for you_ , his heart breaks a little more.

He has the perfect soulmate mark —just one, someone else's handwriting—, as well as the knowledge in his gut that it's as far from platonic as it can get. He should be happy, and this should be easy. That's what the media keeps telling him.

"Aww, boyfriend trouble?" comes from his left, and Phil meets the open, friendly face of Victor Nikiforov.

"He's not my boyfriend," he replies, automatically, despite of how much it hurts and how everyone already thinks otherwise no matter what they say.

He doesn't like Victor much, and that's adding to his discomfort, something Phil didn't think possible just a second ago. He's not used to not liking people. But Victor, who still wears his Beauxbatons robes under his Slytherin ones, who is so flippant about everyone and _everything_ , who disregards anyone else's feelings as easily as he does his own- he's not easy to be fond of, that's all. And Phil is very tired of meeting with Yuuri for a study session and having him come with dark bags and red-rimmed eyes, and having him flinch when Victor inevitably shows up and behaves like he does.

"Ah, don't be like that!" Victor yells, half-standing in his excitement. "It's not over yet!"

Phil offers him a smile that looks more like a grimace, but there's only so much he can do. All he wants is finish his dinner in peace —although for that maybe he should move back to the Hufflepuff table— and go back to his dorm, where no one can see how upset he really is or worse, ask questions about it.

"Uhm, thanks. But he really is not-"

"Everyone knows you're banging," Pansy Parkinson snaps. " _Deal_."

Her blond friend, the one Phil never remembers the name of, even stops his daily Potter-watching to turn towards him and snort.

"Lester, if you had any more weird, disgusting sexual tension, you'd be shagging in your commentator stand during every Quidditch match." He sneers, a gesture that fits him like a glove and not at all at the same time. "No one can be sure you already _aren't_."

" _Oh_ , Dan," Parkinson moans obscenely, grinning, "oh, oh, keep going, _Odinson has just deflected Lehnsherr's Bludger_ , oh, Dan, keep-"

It's too much.

Phil forces another smile in their direction and casually gets up, grabbing a mince pie on his way so it looks less like he's running away, even though he is. He hopes his common room is empty.

And it is. Blessedly so, and not counting Bilbo, who is a really calming presence in general, so all in all Phil believes he has been lucky on that aspect.

"Hello," Bilbo says, warily, as he looks up from his book. "Do you need anything?"

He never asks if someone is okay. That's something Phil admires, the drive to just _do do do_ something about whatever needs fixing, not giving anyone the opportunity to lie about what they need. And it works, too, because Phil, strong intentions to hide in his bed forever and all, finds himself talking.

"I need the Daily Prophet to stop printing," he starts, with a desperation that he didn't know he was feeling.

Bilbo laughs, and he closes his book, resting a hand on the cover like he's soothing it.

"Doesn't everyone?"

"This is not actually about the Daily Prophet," Phil adds, covering his face and falling on a nearby chair. Bilbo makes a sound of amused acknowledgement. "It's just- _soulmates_ ," he finally says, dejected.

"I know," Bilbo replies, nodding, eyes so bright that Phil can't help but think _Well, there goes someone else's good mood_. "Oh, I _know_."

Phil has seen his soulmark —more than once, in fact; it's kind of inevitable when you live in such close quarters, unless you're actively trying to hide it, which Bilbo isn't—, but the name wasn't any he recognised. Bilbo himself, unfazed by Phil's accidental peeking, has admitted to not knowing it either. So Phil can only imagine that the theory he has had for a while has at least some basis on reality: Bilbo must be in love with someone else, and that someone is, all evidence considered, probably Thorin Oakenshield.

Which is sadly ironic, because the name scrawled across Bilbo's arm _is_ Oakenshield. Just not _Thorin_.

"I made a promise, once, with- someone," Phil says, letting his hands fall from his face to stare at them. He holds no illusions that Bilbo won't know who he's talking about. He's merely worldessly signalling that he'd rather if they could just not mention it at all. "We're not supposed to know each other's soulmate. We're not even supposed to _talk_ about it. But I think this is going to- this is not helping. And I need to _know_ -"

It's not fair, not on him and not on Dan.

"Why don't you take a break," Bilbo says, quietly. "Go to the library, study for History of Magic-"

" _That's_ a break?" Phil huffs, smiling a little despite himself.

"Well," Bilbo starts, haughtingly, "it needs to be done. And you might as well do that instead of sulk. There are very few problems that look big next to the Goblin Rebellion of 1752, after all, and even less next to _studying_ it."

"I guess- you're not wrong."

"I rarely ever am," Bilbo snorts. "If you find Yuuri in the library, tell him to come down here. He still needs to show me the video of his last competition."

"I'll remind him if I see him," Phil promises.

And on his way to the door, he gives Bilbo a long, hard hug that makes him squeal in fake indignation.

 

 

 

"Wait, I'll walk you out!"

Bilbo stands, puts his book back in his bag, and joggs to catch up with Phil.

"I live here too!" Phil says, indignantly.

Bilbo waves his hands, gesturing the comment away. It's not as much politeness as it is convenience, he has to admit to himself. He has just remembered that he meant to give Hermione her manuscript back.

She told him it wasn't the only copy, of course, but he still feels restless being responsible for saveguarding so much information that isn't meant to be released to the public just yet. It was already exceptionally nice of her to write down her own version of the War —the _real one_ , in fact— so those nosy journalists without scrupules would stop making things up, and even kinder to let _him_ read it before she was done so he could fill what he had realised, in utter horror, was a gaping hole in his political and historical education. But now he's done, so there's no need to push his luck.

He parts ways with Phil in the hallway that leads to the library, and then it's when he thinks of Thorin.

He doesn't begrudge his tutor sending him here mostly against his will, not anymore. Gandalf, while going around it in the worst way possible —the unnecessarily manipulative one, as usual—, only wants the best for him, in the end. Bilbo doesn't regret moving from the Shire, which isn't a particularly prestigious wizarding school on the first place, to _Hogwarts_. He loves Hogwarts. And he loves the friends he made last year —he tries not to remember the other parts, though, Voldemort hanging over their heads and the _screaming_ —, and the ones he's making in this one, and he loves the classes and the professors, and he loves this country.

The problem is, he also loves one Thorin Oakenshield.

Who happens to be, in this order, not his soulmate, the most insigne King of Erebor —even though the kingdom doesn't technically exist anymore—, and _an utter twat_.

It doesn't help that he and his gang of pseudo family members keep getting him into more trouble that Bilbo has ever gotten into in his entire life. He's a serious wizard with serious ambitions, he cannot be involved in the shenanigans Thorin drags him into for the honour of a kingdom that has no power anymore and, if Bilbo knows anything about the current state of the world, never will again. _Keep them in line if you can, Bilbo_ , Gandalf had said, with that unsettling twinkle in his eyes that reminds of the deceased Albus Dumbledore more than Bilbo is comfortable with. And what a rightful mess he's making out of those instructions.

And because Thorin's just the kind of person to _feel_ when someone's having unflattering thoughts about him, Bilbo blinks and finds himself stumbling into the Dwarves —he told them it was a ridiculous name and they consented to change it to the Company, which really isn't much better, but they only ever use it when Bilbo is included—.

"Oh, dear," he sighs.

"Bilbo!" Kíli's joyful voice greets him, and is echoed by all the others.

Except Thorin, because he is an _arse_.

Which is why Bilbo can't help but be a little panicked when most of the Dwarves walk past him like they are river water and he's a rock in the middle of their path, leaving him with only Dwalin and Thorin himself.

"Did you see the paper?" Thorin asks, blunt as always.

"There are some left in the Great Hall," Bilbo replies, sweetly, and is rewarded by Thorin's darkened look, the twitch of irritation in one eye —Dwalin, standing behind him like some kind of bodyguard, snorts—.

"You read the offer the Minister is making to soulmates," Thorin concludes, going bravely forward. It's not a question anymore, which would show he's learning, except for how Bilbo knows otherwise. "It would be a convenient time to bond with them, if one were so inclined," Thorin says after a pause, looking at him like he's expecting something from Bilbo but he does not dare ask for it, or more likely, he doesn't think it necessary for him to stoop so low as to actually explain himself to the low likes of Bilbo.

And then it hits him.

 _Thorin_ wants help with his soulmate. And Bilbo did not mind supporting Phil through his obvious fall-out with Dan or Yuuri through his Nikiforov-related insecurities, or basically mediating between every single pair —and trio, and even one foursome— of soulmates in Hufflepuff, but this is too much. No one is that good and selfless of a person, and certainly not Bilbo himself.

"I'm sorry, Thorin," he says, hoping his voice isn't shaking as much as he fears, or that at least Thorin mistakes it for anger. Not that there _isn't_ some anger involved, but it's minor compared to the hurt. "I don't think I can help you with that."

Thorin blinks, clearly taken aback. Dwalin puts a hand on his shoulder, shaking his head, and opens his mouth as if to interrupt, but Thorin is faster.

"So you don't want to bond with your soulmate?" he asks, quickly and somehow angry about it, like it's any of his business. "You just- you want nothing to do with-"

"Thorin-"

" _No_." The lie burns in Bilbo's tongue, but it's worth it for the way Thorin stumbles back with the violence of it, startled into silence. "No, your Majesty, I do not, thank you very much for your interest."

"This is _not_ what we meant to talk about," Dwalin says. He pushes Thorin behind him and stares at Bilbo, penetrating eyes digging into Bilbo's soul and probably besting it in battle as well. "Focus, Thorin. The Arkenstone."

Bilbo sighs, more an attempt at calm than exhasperation, but his entire body is still tense like a bow about to be shot.

"The what?"

"The Arkenstone. The most precious gem of Erebor. It's a symbol of-"

"You can learn about it when we have it," Thorin cuts him off, somber, and elbows Dwalin out of his way so he can reach for Bilbo's arm. "It's somewhere in this castle, but we need you to track it down and disable any traps that might have been left with," he says, as he drags Bilbo along the corridor.

With no respect for his boundaries. Paying no mind to how obviously upset Bilbo is with him. And of course it never, never occurs to him that Bilbo might not want to get himself involved in yet another adventure of his, especially when he's always the one who is ordered around to face all the risks, especially when there's nothing there for him, especially when every time Gandalf goes to him in McGonagall's office he looks less and less trusting in Bilbo's abilities to keep everyone out of trouble.

And Bilbo has had about _enough_.

 

 

 

"Let go of me."

The voice is cold, demanding, and Thorin remembers his grandfather Thrór and automatically releases Bilbo's arm. Then he takes a moment to actually believe that _Bilbo_ is the one who has spoken. Dwalin's wide eyes, the concern in every line of his expression, suggest so.

"We have to find the Arkenstone," Thorin says, baffled, because what else is there to say. Nothing, that was made very clear. But Bilbo is there glaring at him, and he's the most beautiful and the most dangerous he has ever been, and Thorin can't even think of how he was just rejected with a cruelty he didn't think Bilbo capable of —not Bilbo, not _him_ —, because all his attention is focused on the utter lack of sense of the situation. "It's the most important heirloom of my family, Bilbo. Do you even know-"

"I'm done," Bilbo replies, all narrowed eyes. "I'm _done_ , Thorin. I'm done with Erebor, and with your adventures, and with your Company. And, most of all, I'm done with _you_!"

Thorin is vaguely aware that his mouth is hanging wide open, which is most unkinglike, but he can't do anything about it.

" _What_?"

He turns towards Dwalin, but he only finds his startlement mirrored. And he's worried. Dwalin is worried, and he's the one who unerringly knows when someone is about to snap, when something is going terribly wrong, before anyone else can spot it.

Bilbo bites his lip, suddenly quiet and sad, unlike the ball of rage that he was just a blink ago. He pats Dwalin's arm as he walks by, careful not to touch Thorin even by a brush of elbows. No explanations are forthcoming. This is not how the world is meant to work, not for Thorin, but nevertheless it's how it is. And Bilbo has the gall to tear up, when it's Thorin's heart what's breaking and _he's_ the one doing it.

"You're still my friends," he whispers to Dwalin. "Please tell the others that, too."

Dwalin nods, moves his arm back to squeeze one of Bilbo's hands, and he says nothing. All Thorin can think is _So he's only done with_ me _, only me_ , and Dwalin knows this as well, but he still says nothing. Fiendfyre bursts into Thorin's chest, goes down to his toes. There was a time where his kingdom was known all over the world, and it was proud and it was powerful, and then the Fiendfyre was cast and it all became ruin, and Thorin used to think he understood, laying on his bed at night as he thought of his legacy, the ashes of his people on the simmering stones, but he really has never _understood_ until now.

Erebor was too old not to feel anything when it burned, and when it did, what it felt was surely something like this.

"You messed up."

Thorin raises his gaze from the floor, and indeed, Dwalin has just said that. His friend is still staring at him, brows furrowed, hands turned into fists that are not threat but frustration, because aggression is one of the only ways they've got left to show anything.

"Yes, I _realised_!" Thorin doesn't mean to yell until he does. That happens to him all too often. "Thank you, Dwalin, for that completely vital observation! This would have been rather more useful _before_ I messed up, but your honesty is much appreciated!"

"Yelling at me will not make it less of a mess," Dwalin says quietly, unfazed as usual by even the worst of Thorin's outbursts.

And Thorin would answer, he really would, and he would calm down —eventually, even though it feels like the world is ending, because his soulmate, his _soulmate_ doesn't want him at all—, but then Victor Nikiforov doubles the corner, green scarf flowing behind him in a way that can only mean magic and hair perfectly tied up in a ponytail and practically _sparkling_.

Thorin hasn't known him long enough to hate him, but still he does. He can't help it. Every time he sees him, it's like meeting Thranduil all over again, and when he speaks it only gets worse. And Nikiforov's personality doesn't help; he's too brazen, too careless, he has no sense of responsability but believes everything is his business if he so desires, he wears a grin like one would wear mithril, and on top of that, the only subtlety in him is his constant condescension. Towards _Thorin_. Who was meant to be a king. Who will one day be.

Nikiforov approaches them —the familiar wave of fury laps at Thorin—, only for once he's scowling, and when he zeroes in on them, what he starts saying is:

"Bilbo-"

And that's _all_ he says.

Because Thorin decks him in the face.

 

 

 

"What the _fuck_!"

Victor tries to hide his wheezing for breath, but it might be a little too late for that. Not that Oakenshield is paying attention: he seems to regret his actions soon enough, or maybe that has more to do with how Dwalin —no one knows his last name, excluding perhaps Headmistress McGonagall— is holding him back. Victor is, despite himself, intrigued. Not many purebloods would have a punch as an instinctive reaction. He knows _he_ doesn't.

"What the actual-" Yuri insists behind him, and his hands go immediately for his wand.

Which Victor took from him after he cursed a Fourth year with boils for insulting him in the hallways. He seems to remember that when he feels inside the pocket of his Slytherin robes and finds only empty air, if the way he's cursing up a storm is any indication.

Victor really should do something about his own broken nose.

It doesn't hurt —his accidental magic was opportune for once and rose to the challenge before pain was even an issue, which doesn't mean, of course, that he won't worry about the loss of control later—, but he'd rather minimise the number of people seeing his face like it must be right now as much as possible. Especially if there's a chance Yuuri is around, and Victor knows for a fact that there is. The library is, after all, really close, because that's where Victor was planning on going to look for him after he had thought of something to say, being the second most likely place to find Yuuri in.

He takes out his own wand, ignoring how Dwalin raises his own threateningly, and fixes his nose.

"Well, we'll be going now!" he says cheerfully, and ruffles Yuri's hair when he opens his mouth to yell again, only at him this time.

Thorin glares at him silently. He doesn't apologise, far from it, but he doesn't attack him again either, not even verbally. It's better than what Victor was expecting, really. He doesn't seem to like him very much, and now that Victor notices, he doesn't look like he's in a good mood. Not that he ever is.

" _Victor_ ," Yuri still hisses.

"I'm deeply sorry for-" Dwalin formally begins, bowing his head slightly, but Victor only waves his hand.

"Oh, I meant to tell you, Bilbo just went that way," he points, "and he looked rather upset. You might want to do something about that. I would, but I'm afraid I don't know him all that well! And he'll prefer your company, no doubt, punches and all."

He smiles at them, bright, and keeps pushing Yuri forward until they are out of sight from the two other wizards. The only reason Yuri allows him this is because he's pawing at Victor's robe meanwhile, trying to find his wand.

"What a piss-poor work of a spell," Yuri grumbles, after he finally finds it, rather disgruntled that they're now too far for him to bother going back and mindlessly attacking anyone. "You forgot to fix literally everything that isn't your nose."

"But do I still look handsome?" Victor asks, worriedly. It will not do for Yuuri to see him with his face completely destroyed, but he can handle a few minor scratches, as long as he's still appropiately attractive; it might even encourage Yuuri to kiss his wounds better. In fact, that is a sound plan if he has ever thought of one. "I should ask Yuuri to heal me!" he exclaims, wide-eyed with wonder at his own genius.

Yuri only snorts.

"What a great idea, Victor," he says, rolling his eyes. "You didn't impress him with your skating trophies, or your Beauxbatons robes, or your pureblood lineague, so _obviously_ it's your total lack of ability in healing spells what's going to get to him. Remember _not_ to invite me to the wedding."

"I already made the invites," Victor replies, cheerful. "In gold ink."

He can tell when Yuri is being sarcastic —he's the opposite of subtle—, but it's much more fun to pretend otherwise. And indeed, Yuri groans like a wounded animal and covers his face with his hands. Victor smiles to himself, a small, imperceptible thing, and kicks the library doors open.

Every single head is turned towards Victor. Madam Pince stands from her seat in outrage, mouth already twisted into the beginning of a scolding, but she accidentally catches Yuri's gaze and gets into a glaring contest with him, which is never a good idea. But it does allow Victor to gracefully walk past them and approach Yuuri, who is sitting by himself in a nearby table, a pile of books on each side and a notebook in front of him, his hand loosely holding a muggle writing device that he's not using, too busy staring at Victor with the most adorable expression Victor has ever seen.

"Hi!" he sing-songs, sitting next to Yuuri. "Have you finished the Ancient Runes essay?"

"You're- you're not in Ancient Runes," Yuuri replies, blinking. "And- uhm, Eight years don't have to write an essay this week either way. Hermione would have mentioned it."

And then, for some reason, he blushes.

"I was asking about _your_ essay!" Victor clarifies, and then waits, expectant, for an answer.

This is how casual conversation is supposed to go, he's sure of that. This is going well.

 

 

 

"Uhm- it's going- Oh, what happened to your face?!"

Yuuri's mouth-brain filter starts working immediately after he speaks, but it's too late now. He didn't mean for it to sound so rude. Or to say anything at all, really. It's true that he has just realised, after partly getting over the shock of his soulmate and skating legend actually talking to him, that Victor is sporting some painful-looking marks in his face —mostly scratches and bruises, but one of them looks like it was left by a ring—, but it's not like _Victor_ doesn't know about it. He's probably on his way to the dorms of one of his friends or admirers so he can get it fixed.

So Yuuri has no business even mentioning it. And frankly, he's perfectly happy with being ignored by Victor, seeing as he's never going to be interested in him either way, no matter what magic says —the first colour Yuuri ever saw: the blue of Victor's eyes—. It isn't mutual, either way. There is no possibility of someone like Victor being a freak like him. He probably has his soulmate's name written somewhere the press hasn't been able to take in picture just yet.

"Oh, this?" Victor replies, looking _ecstatic_ that Yuuri asked. "I duelled to death with Thorin Oakenshield. It was very impressive." And then, fluttering his eyelashes, which somehow only makes him even more attractive despite of how ridiculously over-the-top the gesture is, "Would you heal me, Yuuri? I'm afraid healing spells are not among my many talents."

The last time Yuuri cast a healing spell, it was on a victim of Cruciatus. And so were the time before, and the one before, and the one before as well —not the one before that, though; that one was on a victim of the Entrails-Expelling curse, which Dolohov was partial to—.

He still takes out his wand, steers himself, and casts a single silent spell. The lump in his throat when Victor's face is wiped clean of any sign of violence might as well be relief.

"Thank you, Yuuri!" And then Victor leans forward and _smacks_ his lips against Yuuri's cheek. "They should substitute the muggle healers in every competition with you! You'd do an _amazing_ job. Oh, but then you wouldn't be able to compete-"

" _What_?"

Yuuri is still reeling from Victor's spontaneous, bone-melting little kiss, but he's even more overwhelmed by what Victor is implying. The idea that he knows that Yuuri is an ice skater is too big to contemplate. They have skated in two competitions together, of course, and they went to this summer's post-competition party as well even though they weren't introduced to each other —not that _Victor Nikiforov_ needs any kind of introduction—, but Yuuri wouldn't have ever imagined that Victor had noticed him, even in the most casual of ways.

"I meant _ice skating_ competitions!" Victor says, beaming. "I know you don't like Quidditch."

" _What_?"

Victor is starting to become visibly less confident, but Yuuri can't help himself. He wasn't even completely certain Victor knew his _house_ , despite being clothed in Ravenclaw blue, nevermind any less obvious pieces of information.

"I'm an ice skater too," Victor tells him, playing with a long strand of hair as if nervous. "Victor Nikiforov? I won gold at the Junior World Championships two years ago."

"I know who you are," Yuuri finally blurts out, and immediately blushes dark red. _He does not want you_ , he reminds himself, forcefully, _So he knows you exist. That doesn't mean anything, don't embarrass yourself, Katsuki_. "Uh, well-"

"Victor!"

Thunder is significantly less boisterous than Thor Odinson's voice, but Madam Pince would probably rather cut off her left toe than say anything about it, because Thor is universally loved —which Yuuri, honestly, can understand—. Or perhaps she's just too busy loud-whispering at Yuri Plisetsky in the corner.

"Hello," Yuuri says, politely, to the mountain of a wizard that is suddenly before their table, and is rewarded by a smile so bright that Yuuri has to avert his eyes lest they're burnt by the strength of it.

"Hello!" Thor replies, and gently pats Yuuri's back. And then he squeezes Victor against his side with one arm until Yuuri is pretty sure he hears something cracking. "Victor, my friend, there's Firewhisky in the Room of Requirement, and we never did settle that bet." He turns to Yuuri, grinning. "You're welcome to join us as well!"

"No, thank you," Yuuri sighs. "I have an essay to write."

Victor scowls and starts saying something, but whatever it is, it's completely drowned under Thor's overly-loud _Good luck_. Yuuri watches as they leave, Victor shifting in Thor's grip to wave at him, and then he's staring at a closed door. And his essay is still halfway done.

 _Soulmates_ , Yuuri concludes, burying his head back into his books, _are more trouble than they're worth_.

 

 

 


	2. STEP 2: ESTABLISH TRUST

"Oh, Merlin, this is _hilarious_!"

Ron snorts and puts the paper back on the table, going back to more important matters, like his breakfast. It won't do if his sausages get cold because he's too busy reading the horse shite the Daily Prophet insists on publishing.

"What is?" Seamus asks, peeking from behind the orange juice jug, but Ron only shakes his head.

This is not the kind of thing he would understand. Or find funny either, probably, not even in an ironic way.

"Harry, mate, come look at this."

And Harry slids in the bench to get closer, which is pretty laudable, considering he's already almost plastered to his side. He's not usually that touchy-feely, but he has been sitting that way for a few days now, after the Ministry publicly encouraged soulmate bonding of all kinds. Hermione, despite all her rants against the news, has been behaving much the same way, and Ron is ready to admit that he's not an exception.

"Bonding with your soulmate in three easy steps," Harry reads out loud, eyebrows raised. And then he looks at Ron, who shrugs, so he takes the paper Ron has pushed away and squints at it. "Step one, initiate friendly contact. Your soulmate is probably dying to meet you, after having waited for you for so long. Don't be afraid to introduce yourself if you don't already know each other, and start talking about common interests."

"Oh, look, they wrote soulmate with an s in parenthesis," Hermione acerbically says from Ron's right side. He hadn't even noticed she was peeking over his shoulder. "How progressive of them."

"The grammar's wrong now anyway," Ron points out, grinning. "If you read it with that s, it's 'your soulmates _is_ '. Must be driving you wild, 'Mione."

"Step two," Harry continues, ignoring them, "establish trust. By now, your relationship should have a solid base to lean into, so you can focus on learning what you want from each other and planning your life together. This is the perfect moment to build trust, which is something you're going to need in spades."

Ron can practically hear the cheery tone that the article is supposed to be read with, which only makes Harry's deadpan even funnier. He snickers under his breath, and Bilbo Baggins, sitting in front of him with a Durin on each side —despite only one of them three actually _belonging_ in the Gryffindor table—, offers him a small smile of resigned amusement that clearly says _What can you do, huh_.

"This is complete bogus," Harry mumbles, incredulous, as if they don't all know. But then he goes on, seemingly unable to resist. "Step three, enjoy your perfect relationship. Congratulations, you have smoothed every bump on your way to happiness. All that is left is taking advantage of the benefits that a soulmate brings into your life, including, as you probably know, a stronger magical signature. So remember to sign up to the Ministry's program, The Soulmate Force, if you really want to start your new life with your soulmate the right way."

"Subtle," someone mutters.

Hermione, if her expression is anything to go by, seems to agree with the sentiment.

"Who wrote this, Celestina Warbeck?" she says, teeth bared. It only serves to make her uncomfortably attractive, if terrifying at the same time.

"Nah, too busy writing another album about soulmates," Ron replies. "This is by a new journalist. Skeeter's replacement, I think, they got her this summer. Apparently, Rita Skeeter wouldn't stoop this low."

"Because she'd have to take a lift from where she is right now, writing all those stories about the War," Harry mumbles. "The war she didn't participate in."

Ron has no idea of what a lift is, but he gets the general idea.

"I still feel like- like we should do _something_ ," Hermione says, quietly.

She reaches across the table and takes the paper from Harry's hands, turning it around like there will be a better article somewhere, one that is actually helpful and doesn't ignore the reality of soulmates, which is, as much as it hurts Ron to even think ofit, that they are painful, complicated things. Or maybe Hermione is right, as she tends to be, and it's _society_ what makes them so, but Ron doesn't feel qualified to comment on that.

"We've done plenty already, 'Mione," he reminds her, and rests a hand on her knee. "We _won the War_ , for Merlin's sake. What else can they ask from us."

"It's not about what they _ask_ ," she insists. She's wearing that expression again, the one that tells him that she's going to be too stubborn for her own good, that she will dig her heels in the ground until the soil is plown or until her heels are broken. "It's about what it's needed. It's about-"

"She's right," Harry interrupts, because of course he would. They are too good at sacrificing themselves, Ron's soulmates, and it kills him, but the truth is that there's not much that he can do about it, and even if he could, he's not sure he _should_. "We have to- I don't know. We have to make a- a support group or something, something like Dumbledore's Army-"

"Mate, if you want another fight club, you can just say so-"

"Yes. Yes, Harry, I think-" Hermione says, eyes entirely too bright. "A support group! What a wonderful idea!"

"'Mione-"

"We could meet in the Room of Requirement," Harry suggests. He's sitting straight for once, and Ron can feel the power brimming under his soulmate's skin in his own fingertips. "Do you- No, it won't bring bad memories, will it? It doesn't even look the same since it was fixed-"

" _Harry_ -"

But Ron knows, he _knows_ , that it's no use at all.

And everybody else, well, they have no idea of how much they have just won.

 

 

 

"Excuse me for a moment, lady Sif."

Thor pushes his plate away, and is already halfway out of the bench before she can object. Which is precisely what he had intended. Regretfully, Sif is faster and cleverer than most give her credit for —not Thor, usually, but it can still take him by surprise sometimes—, and she catches his wrist and holds him back, her grip pure steel. But when she speaks, her voice is soft, more baffled than reproachful for once.

"Why do you keep doing this to yourself?"

And Thor, gaze never leaving the Slytherin table, gently frees his wrist.

"He's my brother," he says, as quiet as he can ever get. "I will never not try."

"Hogun told us you'd say that," she sighs. "I did not believe him. You're going to the Slytherin table anyway, so give this to Fandral, will you?" She takes a few galleons out of her pocket and closes Thor's right hand around them. "If you need me, I'll be with Hufflepuff, trying to convince Hogun to help me with Divination, since he seems to be so good at it."

Thor grins and kisses her cheek, which makes her roll her eyes, and he sets off for yet another round of what basically amounts to breaking his chest open for his brother to laugh at the wound. It's still worth it.

"Lo," he calls, when he's standing right in front of him and Loki keep staring at the Daily Prophet and snorting as he reads. It gets him a full-body shudder, and Loki finally focuses on him, scowling. But he has not objected to the childhood nickname, so either he stayed up until late again —practicing the Dark spells he thinks Thor doesn't know he's learning— or something is very wrong. "Brother, can we talk?"

This is one of the things Bilbo Baggins told him when he asked for help. Thor did not know he had to ask for permission before enganging in conversation with his own brother, but he bows, figuratively and otherwise —which had flustered Bilbo, for some strange reason—, to Bilbo's superior expertise in the topic of politeness. And it seems to work, because Loki blinks slowly and shrugs, following him out of the Great Hall without a word.

Thor still isn't happy. He's just noticing that Loki's eyes are red-rimmed and the colour in his cheeks is high, a sure sign that he has been upset recently, possibly even crying. And Loki doesn't just cry for anything.

They walk to an empty classroom in total silence, and then Thor closes the door behind them and turns to face his brother, who is staring at him like he's not even seeing him. But Thor knows better.

He only has to think very carefully of what to say, and there's something that he prepared days ago, something very important that he must say before anything else, so he—

 

—keeps watching him, like Loki's about to blow up, and Loki can't even blame him. He's tired of fighting, which he didn't even think was possible until a few months ago, but he can't figure out how to stop. And that's what enfuriates him more than almost anything else, how not even _that_ is really under control, how nothing ever is, lately.

He knows exactly what's going to happen, but he can't do anything about it. Inevitably, Thor will say something hurtful or ridiculous, possibly both, because that's what he does, and Loki will slice him down for it —or for nothing at all; he hasn't even needed an excuse for a while—, because that's what _he_ does, and then he will be alone again until Thor has licked his wounds for long enough for another attempt.

Loki's mark is burning under his robes, and that is nothing new, either.

"I'm sorry, Loki," Thor says. Loki's head snaps up, and horror grows in his belly, extends cold tentacles into his chest and wraps itself around his ribs, and then it starts _squeezing_. "I've been told that perhaps I was pushing you too much about the soulmate thing. That was not what I meant to do at all, but I still did it, and I'm sorry. If you don't want to talk about it, I will not force you. But Loki-" And here he goes again, ridiculously earnest, and Loki can't hold his gaze but he's doing it either way, can't stop himself, and his dread only grows. "Loki, I need to know what to do. Please. Please, just tell me what you _want_. I will do anything, but you have to tell me- I can't stand to see you suffering, brother, I-"

And that's when Loki bursts into tears.

It's far from his proudest moment, but Thor still crosses the room in a single stride —who taught him to give people space, Loki wonders, with the small part of him that isn't too busy _sobbing_ — and envelops him into a hug.

"I'm trying," Loki hisses into Thor's shoulder, because he'd still rather die than _apologise_ , of all things. "I'm _trying_."

"I know," Thor replies, hugging him tighter, even though he couldn't have possibly know. Loki certainly didn't show any sign of it, but knowing Thor, he probably just took Loki's promise back in summer at face value. "Brother, I know, and you're not alone-"

The most magical thing about Thor is that sometimes, only sometimes, he knows _exactly_ what to say.

"I'm not your brother," Loki reminds him, tiredly.

He lifts his head just in time to see Thor smiling at him, in that way of his that means everything's going to be alright, and that somehow tends to makes everything _be_ , in the end, against all odds.

"You're Loki," is all Thor says.

They're talking about something entirely different, now. Loki, after pushing Thor away and reclaiming his personal space, wipes all evidence of weakness from his face with the back of his hand.

And he smiles.

 

 

 

"Can they talk any _louder_?"

But Dan knows Phil can tell he's tearing up a little. He didn't mean to get involved in the Odinson Daily Show, but this particular episode was unusually emotional —and, for being less public than usual, still _way_ too public; they should learn to cast a Muffliato if they're going to argue in a usually-busy corridor, closed door and all—, and Dan is not-so-secretly a sucker for happy endings. Or whatever that was, because he's not entirely certain it's going to be all sunshine and rainbows.

For Thor, maybe, but Loki, in all honestly, is a piece of work. Nothing is ever that simple for him —Dan hates that he can relate—.

"Dan-" Phil starts, sounding uncharacteristically serious. He's not even smiling anymore. "I was wondering- Don't you think- I mean, I've been thinking, maybe it's been long enough since- well, maybe avoiding even talking about soulmates isn't such a good idea. Maybe-"

"Wasn't the moral of the story literally _don't talk about soulmates_?" Dan replies, but he knows his voice is shaking. And Phil is just _looking_ at him, with that sad expression of his, and Dan is so, so very tired. "Phil. Phil, you really don't want to know-"

"I really do," Phil interrupts, quietly. "But it's okay. I was just-"

And then he falls silent, and it's an awkward silence, at that. One that hurts.

Dan has imagined this moment a million times. In almost all of them, it was accidental. Dan forgetting himself, or Phil catching him after a shower —that one often turned into something _entirely_ different—, or someone else finding out and babbling to Phil. But he realises, even as he's taking the black bracelet off his right wrist, that there was no possibility of this happening any other way. This is how it was meant to be, this is the perfect way.

Even though he's almost definitely about to puke his guts out.

He squeezes the bracelet in his fist and slowly raises his arm, showing Phil the name written in round, careful letters in the inside of his wrist—

 

—and Phil will forever be embarrassed of what comes out of his mouth, which, after the biggest revelation of his life, after finally finding his soulmate, is:

"I thought you were wearing that for the emo aesthetic."

"From _First year_?" Dan asks, incredulously, arm still in the air.

"You're very commited to your aesthetic!" Phil defends himself, blushing up to his ears. Even he can tell his argument is weak. "Okay, but-"

And he realises, it actually dawns on him, that _he_ is Dan's soulmate. He had his suspicions, because after all, Dan is _his_ soulmate, but that didn't necessarily mean anything, considering how fickle magic can be, and they have all heard the stories. But they're each other's soulmates. And it's only when he notices Dan's waning smile that he remembers that Dan doesn't know, because Phil hasn't told him yet.

So he rolls up the left sleeve of his robes and shows Dan the inside of his elbow. _Daniel James Howell_ , it says, in what Phil knows is his friend's neatest handwriting, as if magic had taken the time to imprit his soulmate's name with as much care as Dan himself would have done it with, had he been asked to.

Dan takes a long time to speak.

"I feel like the location of the marks says something about us, but I can't tell what."

"Every single wizarding magazine in existance can do it for you," Phil replies, deciding to ignore how Dan looks like he has been blown apart for the time being. "We can answer the quizzes, if you want. It'll be fun. Oh, actually!" The idea comes wild and bright, and Phil is already writing a script in his mind. "We could even do a special series! In the wizarding channel, I mean! The Phan Soulmate Adventures. We can find out what our marks' location says about us in the first video."

Except that Dan is very particular about his privacy, and Phil really doubts that he's going to want to flaunt that he has a soulmate —and that it's Phil, of all people— to their non-negligible number of wizard subscribers. This is bigger than simply announcing they are a couple in their muggle channel, which Phil isn't certain of Dan wanting to do anyway, now that he thinks about it.

And Dan does look like he's going to cry.

" _Shite_ ," Phil whispers, which would horrify his mother, but the situation merits it. "Dan-"

He's forcefully cut off by Dan throwing himself at him and holding onto his shoulders, taking deep breaths into his neck. Phil kind of really wants to kiss him, but he's not entirely sure he's allowed to, or if it's the right moment.

"We can take a couple of months to record it," Dan says, already sounding steadier. Phil knows what that means. "Finish it all up before uploading, you know, so we can put our full focus on weathering the inevitable shitestorm that will follow." A pause, and then a weak mumble. "The bracelet _is_ kind of for the aesthetic, actually. It wouldn't do to- to take it off, just like that, without any warning or grace period, or anything. People would be shocked. So if-"

"Okay," Phil replies, without even needing to think about it. "Okay, Dan- Okay. _Awesome_."

Dan's hands slid down to his arms, where they curl around the inside of his elbows. When Phil looks back at his soulmate's face, he's grinning, teary eyes and all, and he holds Phil's gaze for about a second before fixating on his lips.

Phil is no seer, but he can definitely see kissing in his near future.

 

 

 

"Oh, well, congratulations."

Bilbo probably should've just kept walking along, but it was impossible to resist. Beside, he's probably doing them a favour, reminding them that they are in public, even if the corridor is not busy at the moment, because breakfast _is_ about to finish.

He politely looks away while his friends try to pretend they weren't just snogging the life out of each other. Although perhaps it's too rash to call what they were doing a snog. Bilbo has the uncomfortable suspicion that he has just interrupted a first kiss, but well, it's not like it's his fault.

"Heeey, Bilbo," Dan says, smiling awkwardly. "How are you doing? Is everything-"

"Oh, Oakenshield was looking for you earlier," Phil says. "And pretty much every member of the Company has been begging for everyone to tell you to go to the Ravenclaw common room to see him, pretty pretty please, he's really not going to be a dick this time. Or that's what I got from it, at least."

And Bilbo, despite his better judgement, despite his common sense, despite _experience_ yelling against it and desperately beating on the walls of his mind, walks right into the Ravenclaw Tower.

Yuuri is there, doing a very good job of looking intimidating for the gentlest Japanese muggleborn Bilbo has ever met —not that he has met that many, granted—, and Thorin is clearly not as unnaffected by it as he'd like. But the stalemate breaks as soon as Bilbo enters the room, and he finds himself pinned by two different gazes with surprisingly similar intensity.

"I knew this was your doing," Bilbo mutters in Yuuri's direction.

"You're always helping everyone," is all his best friend says as an explanation, scowling. "Most of Ravenclaw has classes, and the rest is out for lunch or studying somewhere. There's always at least half an hour of total quiet at this time." He turns to Thorin, eyes narrowed. "Don't waste it."

And then he squeezes Bilbo's hand and disappears into the dorms.

"Bilbo-" Thorin starts, and Bilbo surprises both of them by automatically taking a step back. He stills himself soon enough, but too late to fix the damage. "Uh. Uhm- Bilbo, I meant to-" He takes a deep breath, apparently as unused to hesitating as Bilbo is of hearing it from him. "My deepest, most sincere apologies, Bilbo Baggins."

He stares at Bilbo like he's once again waiting for something. And that's precisely the problem. He's _always_ waiting for something from someone, but he gives so rarely and so little. Bilbo doubts he does it on purpose, but the core of the matter is that he _does it_.

"That's it?" he hears himself say, a blade wielded by soft hands, unused to even holding one. "That's all you have to say, Thorin?"

"What do you want me to say?!" Thorin replies, indignant. "Please, enlighten me!"

"What about, oh, I don't know, _sorry for mocking your lack of bonded soulmate_ , perhaps! _Sorry for constantly being a prat_! _Sorry for rubbing my soulmate in your face when it's obvious you're in love with me_!"

Bilbo wasn't supposed to say that, but it hardly matters at this point, does—

 

—like a punch to the gut.

The Cruciatus —that one, terrible time—, in many ways, hurt less.

"You are my soulmate, Bilbo," Thorin says, weakly. He cannot bring himself to care about appearances, his lineage's pride, his strength as king. It is as novel as everything else Bilbo instirs in him without even meaning to. "I was never mocking you. I was only trying to understand why you still didn't want to bond with me."

"Will you _stop_ this?! Why would you-"

Thorin unbuttons his robe, pulling his shirt's neck to the side so Bilbo can see his own name written across his collarbone. He had completely forgotten Bilbo hadn't ever seen it.

But to Thorin's amazement, his soulmate is now _furious_. He tears his robes away and lifts his shirt, exposing a strip of flesh of his hip, and Thorin stares for a few seconds without understanding, until his mind actually processes what he's seeing. His true name curled around Bilbo's hipbone, just like it was last year, when Thorin first met him.

"You're not my soulmate, Thorin," Bilbo whispers. "You're not, as much as I wanted you to. So it doesn't even _matter_."

"Bilbo- that's my name."

And yet another thing Thorin had forgotten, because he can never quite think of Erebor as lost, as shamed into oblivion, so he keeps acting like everyone knows about his kingdom and its traditions, but Bilbo couldn't know, he couldn't have. He raises a hand, suplicant, to prevent Bilbo from storming out, and then he kneels and takes the book of his heritage out of his bag, flipping through it until he reaches his family tree. He turns the book around and shows it to Bilbo, trying not to shake with pure want and fear when his soulmate steps closer to see.

Thorin, without needing to see —he's as familiar with this particular page as he is with the palm of his own hand—, points unerringly at his own name in the tree. He knows what Bilbo is reading. _Thorin II Oakenshield_ , a date of birth, a miscellanea of other facts in the tiniest handwriting, and finally, Thorin's true name. The one that matches Bilbo's soulmate mark.

The sound Bilbo makes is the most heartbreaking one Thorin has ever heard, but even he can tell what would happen if he tried to do anything about it, so he just closes the book and puts it back in his bag, hiding how his hands are shaking.

"It doesn't change anything," Bilbo says, voice surprisingly steady. There are tears streaming down his face, but he's still saying it, and Thorin doesn't _understand_. "You still- You haven't been _nice_ at all, Thorin. And at times you've been downright cruel, and the worst part, the worst is- I don't think you believe you've done anything wrong. So I don't- if you're not going to be good for me, Thorin, if you- Then I can't do this. I won't. I deserve better, I really do."

The thing about Fiendfyre is, when it starts burning, it doesn't just _stop_.

Thorin should have known.

"Bilbo-" he starts, mouth dry, without even knowing what he's going to say.

"Go, Thorin," Bilbo says, and it sounds like he's pleading. "Please. Just- go."

So he does.

 

 

 

" _Yuuri_! Hello? I'm here to see Katsuki Yuuri!"

Victor has to step away from the door to avoid the human Avada Kedavra that is Thorin Oakenshield, who really has no reasons to be in the Ravenclaw Tower, so Victor must just have monumentally bad luck. At least there's no punching this time. Victor has spent too much time grooming himself for his effort to be wasted, and besides, the boo-boos trick only really works once.

He's here for something more direct. Something positively _scandalous_.

Everyone he has asked —Yuri, Chris, Yakov, his teammates, the house elf who makes his bed every morning... it's a long list— has advised him to put the wooing and the flirting aside, give up on the slow seduction he had planned, and simply confess his inordinate, boundless love for Katuski Yuuri to the wizard himself. It's not what Victor would have chosen for himself, but it does hold a certain candid appeal; besides, what he's being doing doesn't seem to be working, discouragingly enough.

So he keeps knocking. And then he knocks some more, because no one is opening the door, even though Victor knows Yuuri is in there.

"Victor," Yuuri says, appearing in the doorstep just as Victor was about to knock again. "What are you doing here?"

"I need to talk to you!"

Yuuri looks behind him, to his common room, and his brows furrow.

"Now?" His head turns back to Victor so fast that the resulting breeze blows a strand of hair into his eyes. But Yuuri does look adorable when he blushes. "It's really not a good moment."

"It's important," Victor assures him. And, because yet another thing that makes him the perfect soulmate is that he can compromise, "It will only take a minute."

"Alright."

He doesn't move away from the door to let Victor in, but that's alright, Victor can deal with that. It's obvious that his timing wasn't as good as he had hoped, despite his careful planning.

"I met you last summer," he starts, already beaming as he remembers. "In the party after our competition, in Barcelona. Yuri told me you had forgotten, and I didn't want to believe him, but I suppose you _did_ drink quite a lot." Yuuri flushes, but Victor goes on before he can interrupt. "Well, we danced, and we had a lot of fun, and you were flirting with me all night!" And there goes the blush. It really is impressive how Yuuri can go from red to the palest of whites in an instant. "And then you posted that video of you skating to my routine, and I fell even deeper in love with you!"

Victor takes a moment to turn what he's just said in his mind, because the expression Yuuri is making is honestly concerning, and as it turns out, he had skipped right over the most important part.

"Wha-"

"Ah, right!" he laughs, hoping he doesn't sound as awkward as he feels. "I was in love with you since the moment I saw you at the party. Well, maybe since we started talking, but I was _definitely_ in love by the end of that! I had never watched one of your routines before, see, so when I first saw you, when you walked into the party- well, the world lighted up!"

And nothing, nothing will ever compare to the feeling of finally understanding what colour—

 

—is Victor's soulmate.

Yuuri doesn't dare to believe it, but Victor has just said so, and Yuuri might not know him as much as he'd like —as much as he's desperate to— and there might be some unsavoury rumours going around, but Victor is definitely not the kind of person to play a trick that cruel on anyone.

And Yuuri was fourteen, once, and he was competing with Victor, and he was seeing him in person for the first time and it turned it out he was just as beautiful as he was in the videos and the posters and in television, it turned out that it was just that easy for colour to rush into the world. Yuuri is not fourteen anymore, but at the same time, he will always be, so when his seventeen years old self stays frozen, terrified, unable to _trust_ after so long, the fourteen-year-old is the one who takes over.

"I'm your soulmate," he says, much calmer than he actually is.

"Yes," Victor replies, instantly, no hesitation about it. "And I'm yours, right? I've heard- Oh, but I'm not made for a star-crossed lovers tale!" he frets, twirling a strand of hair around his finger. "Yuuri, please, you _have_ to be my soulmate. I can't-"

"You saw colour," Yuuri repeats.

Victor nods.

"Of course! You did too, didn't you? Yuuri-"

"But that's- colour soulmates are-"

And at last Victor seems to understand. He deflates, and Yuuri finally steals a glance of who he can now tell is actually _Victor_ , even though he has just noticed there was a mask of some kind in the way on the first place.

"Ah." In a single quiet, vulnerable sound, there's more _real_ emotion than Yuuri has ever heard from him. He doesn't know his soulmate at all, and it kills him, but damn him if he's not going to do something about it. "So you don't want-"

"I want you," Yuuri immediately interrupts, because he's burning with how much he _wants_. "I want- I want this."

Victor grins, wide and beautiful and real once again, and he takes Yuuri's hands in his. Victor's hands are the hands of a prince, or a Veela —or simply a pureblood, really, but they are soft and gentle enough to be all that as well—, and Yuuri is unworthy of them in so many ways, but he still holds onto them, interlaces their fingers.

"There's nothing wrong," Victor says, and he could very well mean _nothing wrong with the world_ , it does sound like the kind of thing he would say, but Yuuri knows that's not what he means. "This- this is perfect. We are perfect."

And Yuuri believes.

 

 

 


	3. STEP 3: ENJOY YOUR PERFECT RELATIONSHIP

"Thank you for coming, everyone."

Hermione is trying to sound smooth and confident, but she's too nervous to. She's holding Harry's right hand as Ron holds his left, and it's more obvious than they usually care to show that they are soulmates, all three of them —and if they only knew, if they had seen Harry's third mark like they had, well—.

They tried to make the Room of Requirement turn into a room appropiate for a support group, but for some reason, it kept becoming something very similar to where they practiced as Dumbledore's Army. Hermione suspects that Ron and Harry were thinking _fight club_ , despite them claiming otherwise, so while this will always be, at heart, a support group, Hermione has already resigned herself to leading yet another army of sorts. Bonded soulmates do need to get a feel of their new magical strength, and for now most of the resources for that go through the Ministry, so they will still be doing a lot of good.

Besides, she agrees with her soulmates in that most of their first members have no problem being part of a fight club, but would _balk_ at the idea of getting support.

They went to them pair by pair, after painstakingly searching their memories for the ideal candidates, the ones that would have a need for it and might accept to join. Hermione is working on a spell to make the process easier —Dumbledore's portrait is helping, and so are Katsuki Yuuri and, surprisingly enough, Loki Odinson—, but she doesn't regret the time spent in their old process at all.

"We should choose a name," Ron says, suddenly. Most of the members of the club aren't listening, too antsy and out of their element in the new environment they have found themselves in, but he is unaffected by it. "We can't be Dumbledore's Army again, that would be kind of weird."

Hermione zones out of the resulting discussion as well, too busy trying to discretly take inventory of their members once again. It's going to be hard, finding a consistent teaching style that suits everyone for the most part. They are all so different.

There's a single couch in the room —until the Room of Requirement decides otherwise, at least—, designed to fit at least five people, and Loki Odinson is sprawled all over it, head resting elegantly on his right hand, a look of perfect boredom firmly settled on his face. Hermione, being frank, doesn't understand why he has joined them. Everyone knows that he has a soulmate but he'd probably rather die than bond with them, whoever they are, and most importantly, he's too pricky and proud to accept support of any kind.

But here he is. It might be because of Thor —the only one who had dared to push him back to make space for himself in the couch—, because if the grapevine is to be believed, their usually rocky relationship is improving at a rapid pace, and they can now be seen in each other's company and with very little screaming involved almost as often as back in Second year.

Before Hermione can look away, Thor grins at her and slightly bows his head. Harry had asked, being only a little awkward about it, what he was doing here, and Thor had just stared uncomprehendingly in response, but Hermione gets the impression that Thor is akin to those women who accompain their single best friends to pre-natal classes.

"Oh, what about The _Better_ Soulmate Force-"

"No," Hermione replies distractedly.

Beside the couch, sitting on a purple cushion on the floor, Dan Howell is not even trying to pretend he's not talking to Phil under his breath. They haven't said anything, not publicly at least, but Hermione supposes that just being here together is as good as any confession. She never did trust the general belief that they were already a couple, no matter how _obvious_ it was according to Ron. And, since Phil is one of her study buddies, she can tell just fine how much of a difference there is.

She thought he was already a generally happy person, but she had _no idea_.

And Dan, well, she doesn't know him well enough to have an opinion, but he does seem to have an extra spring in his step lately that he's not, as a rule, prone to. And Harry says that his magic feels different as well —he's more or less resigned to this new particular ability of his by now—; apparently, it has an undertone that either wasn't there before or was too subtle to pick up on. When pressed further about it, Harry's only response was a shrug, but it's still interesting to know. Besides, Hermione is _definitely_ going to ask everyone to allow her to use them in her research about soulmates, so she'll end up finding out.

"-much deliberation, Dan and I have selected-"

"Phil, mate, I don't even know what you're going to say but I already know that it's going to be terrible."

"Let the tiny wizard talk, Ronald!"

Hermione smiles to herself, and finally dares to focus on the corner of the room, hoping that the wizards semi-hiding there —and standing a few good feet apart— will be too distracted by the ruckus to notice. This is a couple she does not want to be caught staring at, considering they're not even a couple at all. It's hard to say what is going on with them, in all honesty.

Thorin Oakenshield had approached her himself, questioning her about the rumours of her support group, apparently under the impression that it was going to be a student-run therapy group for soulmates at odds, to hear him tell it. She couldn't turn him away. Ron had heard through Thor —who had learned it who knows how— that the so-called Company wasn't as attached as it usually is, and from then on she's had opportunity to notice herself, how Thorin and Bilbo are rarely even in the same room anymore, how most of the Company seems to direct one-too-many reproachful gazes in Thorin's direction.

For what Yuuri has told her in yet another of their study sessions, the gist of it is that Bilbo cut Thorin off after he finally went too far —Hermione would say that he's being firmly settled in _too far_ for a year, the very least, but it's not actually any of her business—. They don't hide that they are soulmates, a fact that most people who cared were surprised to learn, but Hermione suspects that they're trying to learn how to be friends again before anything else.

"What if it's just Fight Club, you know, like in the movie-"

"A _muggle_ reference?" Loki is the one to object, indignant, this time.

Thor frowns at him and he subsides, mostly, so Hermione leaves them to it, reasonably sure that it won't escalate. And even if it does, there are plenty of people in the room ready to defend the muggles' honour, starting by her own soulmates.

A quiet conversation nearby grabs her attention, and they are indeed Yuuri and Victor Nikiforov, practically plastered to each other like they had been for the past few weeks. Sometimes all she wants to do is grab them and hug them until they can't breathe, because they are here, Harry has confirmed it as well, but there are no soulmate marks in sight —she doesn't need much insight into Victor's character to know that he'd never stop flaunting his if he could—, and Hermione knows what that means.

But, and this makes a knot of joy and quiet fear grow in her throat, they're still _happy_.

Victor has even earned a modicum of sympathy, if also annoyance, by going around asking everyone about the most romantic first date ideas. And Hermione does mean _everyone_. Hagrid was almost as baffled as he was pleased when it was his turn.

And Hermione shouldn't intervene, she knows, but Victor doesn't yet know Yuuri as much as he eventually will, so Hermione can tell that Yuuri is still not getting any support that addresses last year —even happy as he is, he still has his trademark dark bags under his eyes, and Luna keeps recommending him unusual remedies for nightmares—, and she has _heard_ the stories. Yuuri most definitely needs to talk to someone. Hermione is considering pushing him in Neville's direction and crossing her fingers for luck.

"-all I'm saying is, if we're going to use muggle references-"

"We're _not_."

"Okay, okay, you know what-"

"And a reference to a muggle song written by a wizard?"

Yuuri is the one who has spoken, surprisingly enough, and he doesn't even shrink —much, anyway— when half of the room turns towards him. He smiles, timid but confident, and Victor wraps an arm around his waist.

"Which wizard?" Thorin asks, scowling, but sounding remarkably less rude than usual.

"A Hufflepuff. His stage name is Matthew Murphy, but I could look for the name he goes by in the Wizarding World-"

Harry is starting to smile, a slow, sly thing that Hermione has learned to fear over the years. But right at that moment, there's a hesitant knock on the door, which creaks open without any further encouragement to reveal Draco Malfoy, pride in the stubborn tilt of his head and yet so obviously terrified.

"Potter, a word?" he says, fingers curling around a door handle that wasn't there a second ago.

And when Harry immediately ducks out of the room, closing the door behind him, Hermione can only smile.

"-lemon to a knife fight," Yuuri is saying, and there are multiple _ooh_ s and _aah_ s from the muggleborns and some of the half-bloods of the room. Everyone else is either unimpressed or just confused, but Yuuri bravely goes on. "It doesn't fit perfectly, but it's a good compromise, I think! We could be the Lemon Club!"

"Oh, Circe, _no_ -" Loki begins, but in the end he just hides his face in his hands and sighs.

"That's fucking _amazing_ ," Dan says, wheezing with laughter. He holds onto Phil's wrist as he tries to recover his breath, mumbles, "Phil. _Phil_. We belong to a club named with a reference from the _Wombats_."

Ron, bless him, turns towards Hermione, a confused scowl in his face, and says,

"Am I missing something?"

And Hermione can only laugh, the tears forming in the corner of her eyes not entirely out of amusement, because she never, never could've imagined that they would find hope in the Ministry's propaganda and a Wombats song, of all things.

But here they are.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have so many headcanons and _so much_ backstory that didn't make the cut, help.
> 
> If the Eyebrows Squad is reading this, plz don't let me do this to myself ever again.


End file.
